


meetings at crossroads

by uptillthree



Series: meetings at crossroads [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, basically laurent and andrew come across each other in bee's office, that's it that's the fic, this is v self indulgent ignore me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: On every Monday morning of the school year, come 6 AM, Andrew Minyard could be counted on to be sitting in Betsy Dobson’s office in an armchair he’d claimed for himself, nursing hot cocoa. On this one, there was a knock on the door. A man entered— and there was the problem, because Andrew had never seen him before. He didn’t appear to carry weapons, but that, of course, meant nothing.Andrew had learned by now to recognize in others the same danger he saw in the mirror.Bee stood. "Laurent," she said, with some surprise.





	meetings at crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> guess this is what happens when you jump into another book while you're still hungover from the last one. bear with me friends

On every Monday morning of the school year, come 6 AM, Andrew Minyard could be counted on to be sitting in Betsy Dobson’s office in an armchair he’d claimed for himself, nursing hot cocoa.

Bee rose with the sun on weekdays, although no one was ever awake enough to subject themselves to therapy at six on a Monday morning. It was just a guaranteed disaster, said Bee.

So, to Andrew, it was a nice time to talk with Bee, especially since his own official sessions were shared with Aaron now. Not sessions in her therapy room— just talking in her private office while Bee got ready for the day. Or not even talk; just cocoa, or coffee for Bee.

Except on this Monday morning, there was a knock on the door— three steady, if somewhat impatient knocks— and really, no one came to Bee’s door on Monday mornings, six-fifteen.

Except Andrew. Surprised, Bee said, “Come in.”

A man opened the door— and there was the problem, because Andrew had never _seen_ the man before. Physically he was not that imposing, though his gaze was sharp and serious. He didn’t _appear_ to carry weapons, but that, of course, meant nothing.

Andrew had learned by now to recognize in others the same danger he saw in the mirror.

Bee stood. “Laurent! It’s certainly been a while,” she said, pleased but uncertain, her eyes flickering between the man and Andrew.

“Betsy,” he said, then paused, blue eyes settling on Andrew. “I’m sorry, they said you weren’t in a session—”

“It’s fine,” Andrew said flatly. He put down the cocoa. He was almost certain the man wasn’t a patient; he definitely wasn’t a student or a teacher. Bee lectured to him all the time about patient confidentiality, but he decided right then that he had to know what ‘Laurent’ wanted from Bee.

“It’s not a formal session.”

“Well,” Bee said, smiling. She seemed genuine and comfortable, which was surprising, a little. “If it’s really alright with you, Andrew. Laurent, this is Andrew. Andrew, Laurent was a patient from a few years ago. Back then I ran a private clinic.”

Andrew bestowed Laurent with an empty stare. Former patient. That explained some things. The man only nodded at him and stepped fully into the room. He seemed to expect for a moment for Andrew to leave— not fucking likely. When Andrew stayed still and sullen, Laurent took a seat.

“I apologize for coming unannounced. I won’t be long. I—do you still keep chamomile?” he asked, rifling through a drawer. Andrew looked at Bee, but she was still smiling as if people randomly looked through her things everyday.

“You know I do.” Bee watched passively as Laurent found the chamomile and made himself a cup of tea. There was a small smile on his face. Andrew watched with narrowed eyes.

“The coffee,” said Laurent, pointing at Bee’s cup with one fine-boned finger, “isn’t good for you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” Bee glanced at Andrew as though wanting to see what he thought of Laurent. Andrew was happy, for now, to let them talk. “What brings you here, Laurent?”

Laurent was silent for a while then, nursing his cup. “Do you still run private services? There’s… someone whom I’d like you to meet.” For a moment, the man’s gaze looked far away, as though he were seeing something else entirely. (It was something Andrew recognized.)

“Oh— of course,” Bee said, nodding. “Anything I can do to help.”

“There’s a teenager,” Laurent said slowly, “who we’re fostering.” Andrew pressed one arm against the arm of the couch and was assured that the blade was there. “His last… fosterer was my uncle. That was how we met. Needless to say he doesn’t trust me that much. I’d like him to start seeing you.”

Admittedly some of that must have flown over Andrew’s head, because Bee’s eyes lit up with a more serious understanding than he expected. Laurent was good enough at talking to relay his message to Bee without giving away the details to Andrew, but Andrew could full well guess. Still, it didn’t sit well with him that he’d never seen Laurent before. Andrew had figured out who all of Bee’s current patients were by sheer determination. And spying on the files.

Laurent was taller and looked only a few years older than Andrew, but he had a slighter figure; he was a foster father, which probably meant that he had a significant other; he looked fairly well-off, well-dressed, drank tea; and cared enough for his apparent foster kid to barge in on Bee and ask that she meet the boy.

 _And_ he used to be Bee’s patient.

Andrew listened.

“I’m still free on Tuesdays,” Bee was saying, but Laurent was shaking his head; Nicaise— the kid— would have class then, and as much as possible he didn’t want Nicaise getting stressed by therapy on top of school days. (Andrew was, grudgingly, impressed.) Bee was also free on Fridays, but Laurent wasn’t sure he’d always be free on Fridays, and neither would Damen (there it was; the significant other). In the end the two settled on Saturdays, five-thirty in the afternoon.

While Bee got out the necessary papers and Laurent filled them in, Andrew finally picked up his mug and nursed his (now cold) cocoa. “Does Nicaise know he’s going to therapy?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Shockingly, Laurent, who for most of the entire meeting had a serious poker face almost as good as Andrew’s, looked guilty. “I’ll tell him this afternoon. That way I’ve a week to convince him not to be so difficult on his first session. You’ll be good for him,” he said to Bee.

“Well,” Bee said, looking twice as determined at the fact that this Nicaise might not want to see her, “I certainly hope to be.”

 

 

“What do you think of him?” Bee asked when Laurent had left. (Bee knew him too well.)

Andrew glanced back at the door Laurent had left through. “Is he going to be a problem?”

“No, of course not,” Bee said, calm as a lake. “He’s one of the best people I’ve had the pleasure to meet, Andrew.”

“You said he was a patient from a few years ago.”

“He was, and one of the best people I’ve met,” repeated Bee, not missing a beat.

She was on her second cup of coffee. Andrew took the thermos and poured it down the bathroom sink. “Bad for you.”

Bee laughed and held up her hands. “Alright, sorry. You don’t have to worry about Laurent, Andrew. Honestly.”

“I’m not worried.” Andrew was not worried. Andrew was highly suspicious.

“Laurent’s a good man,” Bee continued. “He’s never hurt me, and I’m sure Nicaise wouldn’t, either.”

Bee was going to be very disappointed when Andrew showed up to see that for himself next Saturday, five-thirty in the afternoon.


End file.
